


A fighting chance

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to 'To greet the dawn'. Damien can't save Narilka Tarrant from bleeding to death under his hands, but what about her husband who isn't quite what he seems to be? Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A fighting chance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.
> 
> A/N 2: The bit about Gerald giving Damien a 'fighting chance' has been used before in Merry's (Molly's?) fabulous story 'Translation'.
> 
> A/N 3: It goes without saying that at the time when Damien thinks 'Only he (Tarrant) could sound alarmed and annoyed as hell at the same time', he can't know yet that Andrys is in fact Gerald. I just wanted to show that being badly wounded and in shock, he confuses things (and with good reason, as it turns out...).
> 
> A/N 4: I was foolish enough to accidentally delete about one third of the story. How the heck I managed to reconstruct it in-between preparing for my end of term exam escapes me, but here we go...

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Heaving a sigh from the bottom of his soul, Damien Kilcannon Vryce closed the blue eyes staring blindly up to the ceiling. "I'm so sorry," he rasped, perfectly aware that no, however well-meant words could possibly do the situation justice. "I tried everything in my power, but I couldn't staunch the bleeding. May God give her peace."

The man still holding Narilka Tarrant's limp hand didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge his presence but continued to stare at her pale features as if he hadn't heard a single word. Maybe he hadn't. The former priest damn well knew how he felt. In the weeks following Gerald's demise in the bowels of his keep, he had walked about like one of old Earth's legendary zombies himself, too dazed with shock and grief to think straight. And it was the very bastard sitting at the deathbed of his wife now who had helped him to that nasty experience, thank you very much.

A surge of hatred and self-loathing welled up in him, no less poisonous than the acrid fumes on Mount Shaitan. Only God knew what had come over him to desert Gerald in his hour of need. He would never forgive himself for this heinous deed, nor did his current loss negate one inch of thrice damned Andrys Tarrant's guilt. Of course killing his ancestor had been justice being done in a way. After all, the Hunter had slaughtered his entire family, had spared only him to continue the bloodline. But the man dying in the keep had been mortal, a living, breathing human being who had just saved mankind from falling into eternal slavery. Getting shot with a cross-bow and having his head cut off was but a poor reward for such an act of altruism.

Bitter words were trembling on the tip of Vryce's tongue, but he swallowed them down. Kicking one already on the ground wasn't his style. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he said instead. "A prayer sometimes helps. And certainly her relatives have to be notified."

Eyes green as a spring forest met his hazel ones. They were frighteningly blank, utterly devoid of any human emotion whatsoever. Somehow, they reminded him of the cold, dead stare of the Hunter at the beginning of their acquaintance, and he couldn't help but shuddering. Almighty God, it was uncanny how much the son of a bitch resembled Gerald. The years that had passed since the crusade against the Forest and its master had only served to polish his ethereal beauty to perfection. It hurt to look at him, hurt so much that he quickly turned away and busied himself with smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in his shirt.

"Just so," Andrys whispered as if in a dream. "Informing them about the death of their only child is my duty, but I'd rather... stay here for a while. Martha and Rhodri - they wouldn't appreciate my presence, anyway. Always said that I would bring her no luck." The bitter laugh he barked out sent a cold shiver down Damien's spine. "It seems they were right, eh?"

"It isn't your fault. If someone is to be blamed for her death, it's the sad excuse for a healer standing before you. God, how I wish I could still Work. I feel so incompetent, so utterly useless sometimes..."

"Kindly spare me your self-reproaches. I'm not in the mood for them," Tarrant cut him short. "You did everything you could, as usual. It was I who impregnated her, so keen on siring an heir that I paid no heed to certain warning signs. I should have known better." He sighed softly. "But what's done is done. I'm well aware that I'm asking a lot of you, but would you be so kind as to ride to my in-laws? They still belong to the pagan multitudes, but I'm sure you'll find the right words."

For a drawn-out minute, Damien wavered, torn between the urge to tell the son of a bitch to go to hell and the demands of his higher self. "All right," he said at long last. "I won't do it for you, but for that poor girl and her parents. One of your lackeys can give me directions to their farm. Don't bother to see me out."

Five days later, he was standing in the courtyard of Merentha Castle. Breaking the sad news to the Lessings had been heart-wrenching. Narilka's mother had fainted on the spot, and it had taken him all his skills and a fair amount of smelling salts to revive her. Her father, on the other hand - he had neither shed a tear nor said a single word, but the cold hatred in his eyes had spoken volumes. Even now, Damien cringed at the memory.

Although he was under no obligations towards him whatsoever, a strange pull had drawn him back to Tarrant's side, if only to attend the funeral of his spouse. He was still livid with him for killing Gerald and thus robbing him of the chance to redeem himself in the eyes of God. The adept had deserved better than that. But somehow, his gut feeling told him that his presence would be direly needed before the day was over.

If he tried really hard, he could file that notion away as the concern of a healer. Little Faith had been born six weeks early after all, and it was only natural that he wanted to assure himself of her being all right. Her bereaved father would certainly benefit from a calming herbal tee infusion and a common prayer after everything he had been through. Even more important, he hadn't forgotten the look in Rhodri's eyes. The two men had given each other a wide berth up to now, at least as far as it was possible when carrying a beloved family member to her grave, but Vryce didn't doubt that the settlement had only been postponed.

His justifications for sticking around, his teeth set on edge, were perfectly logical at first glance, but his real motives ran much deeper. He couldn't quite put a finger on it yet, but something had struck him as rather odd about Tarrant, and it wasn't just his eerie likeness to his ancestor. From the little he had seen of him in the Hunter's keep, the man had had more than one toe over the thin line separating being a bundle of nerves from outright insanity. His jerky movements, the mad glitter in his eyes - Damien would have expected him to end up either in a nuthouse or in his grave within a few months. If he lasted that long, that is.

But the Neocount had proved him wrong, had picked up the pieces and lived a blameless life henceforward. No drugs, no affairs, no scandal whatsoever. Although love supposedly could work wonders, his complete turnaround was somewhat astounding, nonetheless. And there was more to it. That Andrys had shown next to no emotion right after his terrible loss was no big surprise. Shock could do that to people. It sometimes took a few hours or even days for the bitter truth to sink in. Then came the time of mourning what had been lost. But while accepting condolences and delivering the eulogy for his late wife the man hadn't given the impression of being half out of his mind with grief or shock, nor would it seem that his almost inhuman detachment was due to popping a handful of tranquillizers, something that would have been only too understandable under the given circumstances.

"Doctor Vryce?" The light tenor so painfully reminiscent of a silken voice still haunting him in his dreams snapped him out of his musings. "May I have a word with you?"

"Yeah, sure. What's on your mind?"

Tarrant cast him an inquisitive glance. "Please don't get me wrong. I appreciate your coming today, I really do. But having said that, I can't quite fathom why you're here. If I'm not completely mistaken, there's no love lost between us. Or, to be precise, you've no reason for harbouring amicable feelings for me."

The former priest had always wondered how the heck men so utterly alike on the the outside could be that different in terms of personality, but evidently Andrys had inherited more than just his ancestor's looks: The vulking bastard knew how to raise his hackles. "I'm just asking myself the very same question," he grated out between clenched teeth. "Maybe for lack of anything better to do?"

"You don't strike me as a funeral tourist, Vryce," Tarrant retorted calmly. "You're rude, foul-mouthed and much too stubborn for your own good, but sensationalism isn't among your character flaws. So for the last time: What has brought you here?"

Damien gaped at him, completely aghast. Whatever had wrought the changes in him, this wasn't the half-crazed chit of a boy brandishing a cross-bow anymore but a man radiating power and authority. If not for the colour of his eyes, he could have been Gerald Tarrant all over. Even his inflexion and patterns of speech were exactly the same, let alone the indomitable arrogance dripping from each and every syllable.

It was too much. Overwhelmed by a surge of sorrow so intense that he could hardly breathe, the warrior knight buried his face in his hands and wept, as he had done so very often before in all those long and lonely nights he had spent on his knees, praying for his friend's salvation.

"For God's sake, stop crying, Vryce! What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Just give me a minute, will you?" Angry with himself for bawling all over the place in front of the adept's murderer, Damien pulled himself together with all his main and might and dried his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm sorry for making a spectacle of myself," he muttered when he could trust his voice again. "It's just that I know damn well what it's like to loose someone dear to you. You saw to it the day you killed a helpless human being out of pure vengefulness. I don't deny that Gerald committed terrible crimes in his existence as the Hunter, but he was so much more than that. I wish to God I could have died in his stead."

He expected his confession to be met with scorn and derision, maybe even fury, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Now it was Andrys' turn to stare in wide-eyed disbelief, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. If Damien hadn't felt so god-awful, the dumbfounded expression on his face would have given him the giggles for sure. "Let me see if I got this right," Tarrant breathed after a while, his hue ghostly pale. "We aren't talking about mere friendship, are we? You were... enamoured with my ancestor, as bizarre as it may seem."

"So what? It's none of your business, anyway."

"There you're very much mistaken. Everything between the two of you concerns me. But why on Earth and Erna..."

Damien never found out what the Neocount was about to say. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Rhodri Lessing appearing out of the evening mist like a spectre from the realms wherein the nightmares dwell, a pistol in his raised hand. Disarming him was out of the question. He could never make the distance in time. _Step back and just let it happen_ , a small but very insistent voice piped up in his brain. _This is the bastard who snuffed out Gerald's life. Isn't it justice being done in the truest sense of the word that he's the one to be utterly powerless now, at the mercy of a man so crazed with grief that he doesn't possess a shred of it?_

But allowing nothing short of a vulking assassination to happen right in front of him would have been anathema to everything he believed in. When he saw Lessing's index finger tightening around the trigger, he acted without thinking twice, throwing himself in front of Andrys and shielding him with his own body.

The crack of the shot and its impact were almost simultaneous. All of a sudden, the sturdy, reliable legs that had carried him over untold miles seemed to be made out of jelly, and he hit the ground with a resounding thump. From far, far away, he heard people screaming and a vicious snarl that didn't bode well, but a strange sense of peace coming over him, he couldn't have cared less. "Don't you dare dying on me, Vryce. Not now," somebody yelled at him, and his lips pulled into a faint smile. Tarrant, evidently alive and unharmed. Only he could sound alarmed and annoyed as hell at the same time. Then the lights went out in the tunnel his vision had narrowed into, and he knew no more.

For a long time he was drifting between utter oblivion, horrible nightmares which had him relive all that crap he'd been through at the Hunter's side and short periods of consciousness he could have very well done without. Even under the influence of the galleons of potions forced down his throat and an occasional shot the pain was still barely tolerable, and a gaggle of grim looking healers poking at his wounds when changing the bandages did nothing to make things any more pleasant.

Then the fever started, rising to at least a hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit within a few hours. He was burning from the inside out, despite everybody's best efforts, and in his increasingly rare lucid moments, he knew that the grim reaper was closing in on him.

Coming out of just another fit of delirium transporting him back to Mount Shaitan, he found a very familiar face staring down on him. Befuddled by pain, fever and the aftermath of his latest dream, he was just about blurting out something along the line of "Thank God, Gerald, you're alive!" when the Neocount of Merentha moved fast as lightning and clamped a hand over his mouth. "I'd rather you didn't call my by my ancestor's given name. It could have serious consequences you can't even begin to fathom. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

When Damien nodded, Tarrant removed his hand and sat down at his side. "We need to talk, Vryce," he whispered, his brow knitted into a tight frown. "The bullet meant for me passed right through you, leaving a nasty exit wound in your back but missing every vital organ as by a miracle. You should heal all right if not for the infection that has set in. I summoned every proficient healer in the area, but so far, they failed to bring it under control."

"How bad is it? And what about Rhodri?"

Andrys snorted. "The bastard is fine. As yet. He came to his senses when it dawned on him what he had done. Since then, he's been on his knees, begging his petty deity for saving your life. Concerning your state of health, I won't lie to you. Your temperature has fallen, but your colleagues warned me that it's just a short reprieve. You aren't out of the woods yet."

"Meaning I'm going to kick the bucket if they don't find a cure anytime soon."

"It's possible. But owing you a debt of honour, I won't let that happen."

A few days ago, the former priest would have laughed into his face. Who the hell did the man think he was? God? But somehow, he was beginning to suspect that there was a bit more going on behind that pretty façade than he had assumed at the beginning of their ill-fated acquaintance. Resonating with the conviction of a natural born leader used to issuing commands and seeing them followed, Tarrant's quiet words hadn't sounded like an empty boast. Not by a long shot.

But sometimes conviction wasn't enough. "And what the hell can you do better than a bunch of professionals, if I may ask?" Damien croaked, digging his fingers into the mattress with a vengeance when a searing bolt of pain shot through his middle region.

"I could Work."

The warrior knight blinked. "But you aren't a sorcerer, right? And even if you were, you'd better remember that the fae is inaccessible nowadays. Unless you're willing to pay the ultimate price, that is. Sacrificing your life for a vulking stranger sounds like a pretty bad bargain to me."

"You're wrong in two respects, Vryce. Trust me that I'm not completely ignorant when it comes down to sorcery. It may or may not cost my life, but I can - and will - Work if need be. Second, you aren't a stranger to me. As I've already pointed out, you saved me. Saved me in more ways than you could possibly imagine. It's only fair to return the favour. But gratefulness and matters of honour aren't the only reasons for my being not altogether keen on sitting at your death bed."

Damien heaved a loud groan. The pain accelerating to unprecedented heights, he just couldn't help it. "It's getting worse. If I were you, I wouldn't waste time on fruitless debates," Tarrant cautioned, a hint of impatience in his low voice.

"No. No Working," the former priest gasped forth between clenched teeth. "You've got a daughter to care for. I couldn't live with it if something goes awry. But thanks for the offer, Your Excellency. Seems that I've underestimated you all along. As for me, I don't really mind making my final exit. Maybe I can find Gerald again and tell him how... how much I miss him."

Tarrant's mien darkened. "If you give up now, the only thing you'll find is a cold grave," he snapped.

Once again, he sounded so much like his ancestor that Damien smiled in spite of his discomfort. A tremor passed through his body, heralding just another shivering attack. He was tired to his very bones, but before he closed his eyes, maybe never to open them again, he wanted to gaze his fill on the features so dear to him for one last time.

Being sick as a dog, he hadn't paid any attention to appearances before, but now he realized that Andrys looked like crap. The dark shadows circling his eyes like bruises and the sickly pallor of his skin told of many a night spent waking. Maybe the death of his wife had dealt him a worse blow than it had seemed. He felt a strange kind of pity for the man, but his torso hurting like blazes and the fever starting to rage through his body again, there wasn't much he could do for him other than wishing him well and sending a silent prayer heavenward.

Damien's eyelids started to droop, and he put his life into God's hands. He only hoped that it would be over soon. Slowly dying of gangrene or blood poisoning wasn't something he would wish on his worst enemy. But suddenly Tarrant's face was right in front of him, fury written all over it in fiery letters. "Oh no, Vryce, that's not part of the bargain," he hissed. "I'd rather have avoided this, but if you can't find the will to live in yourself, I won't shy away from using the tools I must. But no allusions to the past whatsoever, or you'll be my undoing."

The piercing eyes drilling into him changed, bright green fading to the colour of an overcast sky. Then something forced itself into his mind he had thought forever gone and buried since the night he had felt the link break. Images and emotions not his own came crashing down on him in a blinding rush, leaving him gasping and shaking all over. He saw his own bulky frame standing on Mount Shaitan, his gaze locked with the Hunter's in a last farewell, felt the unimaginable agony of the raw power of the earth surge frying Gerald's brilliant brain to a crisp and shared the tangled mixture of relief and regret when the real Andrys Tarrant collapsed onto the ground, shot straight through the head.

"Oh God, who are you? What are you doing to me?" Vryce cried out, half and half convinced that he was either hallucinating or had already died without ever noticing and landed himself in heaven against all odds."

"You know very well who I am. As to your second question, I'm only doing what you did for me: I'm giving you a fighting chance. The rest is up to you."

Three weeks later, one of Tarrant's domestics wheeled him into the castle grounds. Muffled up in a quilted jacket and a blanket spread over his legs, Damien felt pretty much like his own grandfather, but as it was his first trip outside after almost dying of blood poisoning, he had agreed on erring on the side of caution, albeit grudgingly.

Spring had arrived at long last. The birds were singing in the trees and the skies were clear and blue above him, but his heart was jumping a bit in anticipation. While he'd been fighting for his life, Gerald - no, _Andrys_ , he corrected himself - had stayed glued to his side, not being above holding his hand and feeding him water by the spoonful. Even when he had been so delirious that he wouldn't have recognized his own mother, the adept's comforting presence in his mind had anchored him to the world of the living. But since the worst had been behind him, the son of a bitch had made himself scarce in his sick room, even shutting down the channel again so that it revealed no information whatsoever. Damn him!

Tarrant was waiting for him at a sumptuously laid coffee table. Very much to his amazement, Damien found that his feelings were rather mixed. Of course he was relieved beyond words that the one and only man he had ever desired had survived the destruction of his domain, if in a completely different manner than he had envisioned. What was more, the adept had even volunteered to risk his life for his sake, an utterly unwonted act of compassion for somebody so fixed on his own survival. But some things were still standing between them, for example the little charade at the keep and how the heck the 'spoiled brat' from Black Ridge Pass fit into the picture.

"Tee, Vryce? If you're hungry, I'd suggest having one of the scones. They're delicious."

"Just tee, thank you. I don't think I could force down something solid right now." Somehow, Damien felt as if he had dropped right into a bad play, the actors boring the shit out of the audience by mouthing some trivial bullshit nobody was even remotely interested in. He least of all. "Your Excellency, I..."

Tarrant stopped him with a wave of his hand. "No need for being formal. 'Andrys' is fine."

"All right then, _Andrys_ ," he tried again. "I'm grateful for everything you did for me, but as we're sitting so cosily together, there's something I'd like to know."

The adept sighed softly. "That was to be expected. I'll do my best to answer your questions, but please bear in mind what Karril told you, or our conversation is bound to be rather short, if you know what I mean."

"Karril?" Damien blinked. "What the hell has he got to do with it?"

"Quite a lot. He was the black-haired 'youth' who sought you out on Black Ridge Pass. Don't look at me like that, Vryce! It was to be feared hat if you had continued to wallow in self-pity and utterly uncalled-for pangs of conscience, you would have ended up doing something futile. I simply couldn't have that."

To the end of his days he wouldn't know how he had accomplished it, but suddenly the former priest was on his feet, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side. "And so you did what?" he fumed. "Sent that vulking Iezu to regale me with a pack of lies while you stayed safely in your goddamn castle, very likely busying yourself with your wedding preparations?"

"Not all of it were lies. And now kindly sit down again. You lost about a stone, but I can think of something better than lifting you up from the ground."

Vryce flopped down in a huff. He would have rather bitten off his tongue than admitting it out loud, but the world starting to spin dizzyingly around him, he was rather glad to get the weight off his feet again. "You fail to see the big picture, a lamentable habit of yours," Tarrant went on after sipping at his tea. "If my ancestor had found a way to escape death once again, his sacrifice may have been slightly less all-encompassing than in Karril's version of the story. Nonetheless, approaching you in person would have been extremely dangerous."

"He should have trusted me. Theoretically speaking, of course."

"Of course. It goes without saying that I can't know for sure what went on in the Hunter's head back then, but I think it's safe to assume that he had complete confidence in you at the end of your acquaintance. Although his demonic nature blinded him to your, how shall I put it, more tender feelings towards him, he was well aware that you would have done everything in your power to protect him, and not just because you were considering him as the proverbial evil to be set against evil. Believe me or not, but the only one he wouldn't have trusted was himself."

Registering the baffled expression on his face, Andrys raised an eyebrow. "In spite of being a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, it can't have escaped you that Gerald Tarrant was holding you in very high esteem, Vryce. He admired your courage, your unwavering loyalty towards your comrades-in-arms and your sense of honour. Even your rugged good looks didn't go unnoticed. If the compact he had made with the forces of the dark hadn't ruled out participating in sexual congress or even mimicking its forms, he most certainly would have made advances to you long before you rescued him from hell."

"If you think you can make fun of me, you're on the wrong track!" the warrior knight growled, his temper close to boiling point again. "Whatever my feelings for Gerald, he was as straight as they come. Or have you conveniently forgotten all about your family history?"

"My memory is fine, thank you. But _you'd_ better remember that there are many reasons for taking a wife. And that pleasure doesn't necessarily go hand in hand with affection, for that matter. Nothing of it ever made it into the Church annals, but trust me that the Prophet of the Law was no less inclined to both genders at the end of the day than I. If King Gannon were still alive, he could testify to it."

That was an eye-opener Damien hadn't expected, but he decided to worry about the identity of Tarrant's ex later. The man's bones had crumbled into dust centuries ago, anyway. "But such a negligible trifle didn't stop you from rushing head over heels into marriage!" he said scathingly, swallowing down a treacherous 'again' at the last possible moment.

The adept shrugged. "It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Narilka was aesthetically pleasing, intelligent and courageous, a woman worthy to bear my children. I... cherished her, in a way."

His voice calm and composed and his face utterly serene, he may have fooled everybody else, but Vryce heard the ever so faint trace of sorrow in his light tenor, saw the shadow clouding his eyes for a second or two, and a pang of jealousy strangely akin to the pulling, throbbing pain that had made his life a living hell for roundabout two weeks made him wince. Harsh words came to his mind, but he called himself to order. The past was the past. What the future would hold in store for them, whether they'd be able to pick up the pieces or go separate ways again in a few days remained to be seen.

Damien cleared his throat. "I'm sorry that she had to pass away so young. Honestly," he muttered awkwardly. "While we're at it, how's the little one? I hope you don't hold her mother's death against her."

"Don't be ridiculous, Vryce. The child is innocent. At least as long as you ignore certain doctrines of our faith," the adept added with a sardonic sparkle in his eyes, doubtlessly alluding to their encounter in that dae in Briand what felt an eternity ago. "Unfortunately, I still lack a male heir, but I see no reason why a Neocountess shouldn't succeed me one day."

"A Neocountess? Now you've got me floored."

"Why? I may appear old-fashioned in many respects, but I learned long ago that clinging to obsolete customs won't get you anywhere. All living things have to evolve unless they want to risk stagnation or worse. It's one of the fundamental laws of nature."

His mind still reeling with the revelations sprung upon him, Damien wasn't interested in laws of whatever kind. "I know we've already discussed this ad nauseam, but what about Gerald's alleged feelings for me?" he got back to the one puzzle that kept bothering him more than anything else. "Would they've been transferred to his new incarnation in case Karril hadn't just concocted the weirdest cock-and-bull story I've ever heard?"

"We're talking about a purely physical process here. A shape shift not altogether different at a basic level from changing into a bird. Gerald Tarrant's soul, or whatever was left of it after a thousand years of corruption, would have come out of it unscathed."

"Yes or no?"

"Evidently, the passing of time hasn't diminished your capacity for being quite a pain in the neck, Vryce," the former Hunter sighed, a hint of colour creeping into his cheeks. "But as matters stand, I suppose you've every right to know the truth. So be it. Yes, if something of my ancestor's essence had survived in whatever form, he would have still desired you. And more. Does that answer your question to your satisfaction?"

Damien opened his mouth and closed it again without having uttered a single syllable. He simply couldn't think of anything that wouldn't make him sound like a complete and utter fool. But his fingers moved as if on its own account, grasping Andrys' so much more slender ones and giving them a gentle squeeze.

The one and only Neocount of Merentha tensed up, but he neither pulled his hand away nor told him to go to hell. Somewhat heartened by this success, Vryce started to stroke his palm with his thumb, drawing little circles until he could hear the breath hitch in Tarrant's throat.

It was the only reaction he got out of him and could mean everything from 'throw me on the ground and have your wicked way with me' to 'one more move, and you're dead'. If not for the man's pupils dilating in spite of the bright afternoon sun, a rather reliable indicator of sexual arousal, Damien might have made a strategic retreat, but so he decided to put all his eggs in one basket. "Our discussion was most enlightening, but I think I'd better lie down now for a while," he rasped throatily. "Care to show me to my room?"

At first, nothing much happened. Tarrant just continued to stare at him, his face no less unreadable than in his heydays as the Prince of Jahanna. But just when he was beginning to fear that he had gone too far, his former ally got to his feet in a motion almost inhuman in its grace and fluency and gripped the handles of his wheelchair.

Neither of them was in the mood for small talk on their way to his quarters. Being wheeled over the threshold, Damien saw that his bed had been made during his absence, as on each and every day since he could be moved without making him scream in pain. Bad luck for Milly, the long-suffering chamber maid. If he had his way, the fine linen sheets wouldn't be that pristine anymore in an hour or so.

Heaving himself out of his thrice damned vehicle and onto the mattress was a hell of a struggle, but he managed, if only just. His heart racing and black dots dancing merrily in front of his eyes, he couldn't help but wondering whether forcing things hadn't been a crackpot idea. That it had taken all the strength he had to haul his ass from point A to point B, starting and ending coordinates being no further apart than a measly yard, showed only too clearly that he very likely would be good for nothing horizontal-wise in his current condition if no miracle occurred.

To make matters worse, his personal hygiene was leaving a lot to be desired lately. Undead or alive, Tarrant had always been obsessed with cleanliness. He certainly wouldn't appreciate having it off with a man who hadn't had more than a few bed baths and occasional visits to the washing basin in weeks.

"I don't mind getting your sweat on me," the adept breathed, evidently using the remnants of their link to his advantage. "It's a normal part of the proceedings. Your weakness is an altogether different kettle of fish. Are you really sure you want to go on with this?"

Good question. He desired Gerald or whatever had become of him, desired him more than anything and anybody else in his entire life, his priesthood included, but perhaps it would indeed be better to postpone their amorous tête-à-tête for a few days. Their first time should be something special for both of them. In his book, this didn't include just laying there like a sack of not potatoes while his lover had to do all the work.

Somehow, that train of thought triggered a rather alluring image of Tarrant sitting straddled atop him without a stitch of clothing on his lean body, and heat rushed to his groin. The feel of his cock pressing hot and hard against his pyjama pants tipped the scales. "Come here, you cunning son of a bitch," he chuckled, patting the mattress next to him.

A flash of defiance passed across the adept's delicate features, but he indulged him, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the bed. "And now, Vryce?"

"Well, what do you think? I'm going to peel you out of your fancy clothes layer by layer and kiss you all over, taking it nice and slow and savouring every single inch of you. Would that appeal to you?"

"It would. For a start," Andrys whispered, his breath quickening ever so slightly. "But I still think it's very unwise to..."

Damien flashed him a wicked grin. "Don't you worry. I promise to be gentle with you."

As it turned out, it was Tarrant who leisurely undressed them in-between kisses as if he had all the time in the world. After placing two small pillows under his back in order to take the pressure off his wound, the man unearthed a vial from the nightstand drawer. Vryce hoped to God that Mer Sarchain, the healer in charge, would never find out for which purpose the oil originally intended for massaging his patient's aching muscles was about to be misemployed.

Any thoughts of awkward situations and having a lot of explaining to do paled into insignificance when the adept started to spread a generous amount of the slippery liquid over his privates. Although the feel of his hand gliding up and down and his shaft in a tantalizingly slow rhythm sent Damien's arousal soaring, it wasn't quite what he was hungering for. "Andrys, I.." he commenced, but a a long index finger to his lips silenced him.

Before he could do so much as blink, Tarrant straddled him just the way he had imagined a few minutes ago and lowered himself onto his straining erection without further ado. The tightness was incredible, surpassed everything he had ever experienced with a woman. Having taken him in to the hilt at last, the adept paused, evidently needing some time to adjust to the sensation of being filled to the brim. But just when Damien thought he couldn't bear the tension any longer, he started to thrust, gently at first, but then with rising enthusiasm.

Vryce wasn't quite sure what turned him on more: the feel of his foreskin sliding back and forth over his glans with each and every of Tarrant's pelvic motions, sending shudder after shudder of pure pleasure through his abdomen, or the sight of that epitome of pride and self-control riding him with utter abandon. For a moment, he considered lending a helping hand, but dismissed the idea as utterly superfluous. The way the adept's breath was coming in short, rapid gasps now and his thrusts were becoming more frantic and jerky by the second showed very clearly that he could spare himself the effort. Then his lover convulsed atop him with a strangled moan, and the rhythmic pulse around his cock was all it took to send him over the edge as well.

Much later, Damien woke up from his slumber, just to find himself under the scrutiny of a pair of dazzling green eyes. "What is it?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Do you believe in fate, Vryce?"

"No. Well, I don't know. At least, I don't fancy three old hags messing about with one's thread of life, nor do I believe that God determines our everyday actions. The choices we make are our own responsibility." Registering the strange expression on Tarrant's face, Damien smiled at him. "But I believe in God's infinite wisdom, love. If He had a hand in our reunion, I'm sure as hell He must have had a few thoughts on the matter."

The adept said nothing, just wound his fingers into his hair and pulled him into one of those kisses that made his head spin and his toes curl with delight. Damien surrendered to his increasingly bold caresses with a sigh born from sheer bliss. Only God knew what would come out of this. Gerald Tarrant had been quite a handful even on a good day, and he harboured a sneaking suspicion that sharing his life with the man's new incarnation wouldn't always be a bed of roses, either. Pride, arrogance and stubbornness could add up to a devilish cocktail. But in the end, he didn't give a damn. All that mattered was that they were together again, could make the best of the fighting chance Andrys had given them, jeopardizing his continuing existence in the process. The rest would come with time.

At the very next moment, his lover took him in again and started to roll his hips, and he stopped thinking altogether.


End file.
